Between the Streets of Hell
by ImWatchingYou104
Summary: December, 1942. Hitler has smashed his way through the Polish corridor, and now worms his way into Russia. His planes have left London in ruin. The world is thrust into chaos. Jews and other "untermensch" are beingdeported to death camps. What room is there for love then? Rated M for violence, language, sexual content, and topics that may be offensive to the viewer.
1. The Introductions

Wasilij chewed his nails as he gazed out the open window, paranoia setting in. The sun was beginning to rise, and the grey of the false dawn meant that the Gestapo would likely be checking to make sure everyone was either asleep for curfew, or had their permission papers on them. Wasilij fingered the gold Star of David hung around his neck, still watching and still chewing, for anyone with a bright red badge on their arm. He was always so fearful that _they_ had discovered him, that _they_were going to barge into his door any minute, and whisk him away to the awful ghetto to the south of the city. His lip quivered as he bit through skin, the irony taste of blood intruding his mouth.

Quickly, he spat it out and wiped his lips, returning to his vigil and feeling oh-so-very tired. He couldn't go to sleep, not yet. _They_ were still out there, watching. Waiting...

* * *

Pressing his forehead deeper into his palm, Peter continued to file the seemingly endless supply of paperwork on his desk. Information that, although vital to his job, that was utterly boring to sift through and decide which one's he should keep or which one's he should crumble into a ball and throw at the nearest trashcan, or if the opportunity presented itself, throw it at the back of his co-worker Erdmann's head whenever he tried to take another one of his ten minute naps. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, Peter looked down at the vastly diminished pile of paperwork on his desk.

"It can wait, it can wait. I need to stretch my legs anyway." Peter mumbled to himself, standing up from his desk and cracking his back. Leaving his Gestapo badge on his desk, Peter made sure that he had his pistol secured in the holster underneath his trench-coat and strapped his knife to his ankle before walking out the back-door of City Hall. Waving goodbye to the posted sentries outside, Peter walked to the right and onto the early morning streets of Warsaw.

Humming a quiet tune to himself, Peter looked around the city. You could tell it once was a beautiful city, before the war came and took it away. Now, it had an air of a pretty woman who had been beaten by it's abusive husband. Still standing tall, but, with a few extra bruises and blemishes. It still had a beautiful face underneath those bruises, and perhaps one day those bruises would fade, but, to the outside it was an ugly mess. Lighting a cigarette, Peter contiuned his aimless walk about the city. His instincts on the beat still haven't faded, as he casually scanned the nearly empty streets (aside from a few Wehrmacht patrols and the random civilian or two rushing home) looking for something. Perhaps a pulse, perhaps just a sign of life. A breath from the comatose city.

Passing by the theater, Peter wondered if they would play any good films. He longed to see a decent film that didn't involve simply praising Hitler and the Nazi Party. Although, Peter would admit, sometimes they were nice. But a comedy seemed to be in order for this time and age. Perhaps Peter could use his position as a Gestapo agent to force the management to play a comedy. Taking another drag from his cigarette, Peter shook his head at the thought of the idea. Although he certainly could abuse his position, it was against what he stood for. He was here simply to do his job, whatever that may entail.

Flicking his now-finished cigarette to the ground, Peter looked up to see the sign of the local cafe above him. Pressing his face to the window, he saw only a few people inside. Shrugging nonchalantly, Peter quietly entered the cafe and took a seat in a back corner of the room so he could face everybody inside while having his back exposed to the wall. Picking up a menu off the table, Peter scrolled through the list of options. He was slowly learning the Polish language, and he was now starting to able to understand what the menu actually said. Deciding on a staple diet of eggs, bacon and coffee; Peter waved the waitress over.

"What can I get you, sir?" The Polish waitress asked, predictably, in Polish.

"Just some easy-over eggs, bacon and a cup of coffee; please. Black, if that's possible."Peter responded back in Polish, surprised how quickly he accent was beginning to fade. He almost sounded Polish!

"It'll be out soon sir." The waitress responded, disappearing back into the kitchen. Looking out the nearby window, Peter saw the sun slowly rise above the horizon. A start to another long day.

* * *

The bar seemed just as jovial and unaffected by the outside world as usual; it was the one safe place left for Alexandre. As he strode into 'The Drunken Soldier', he looked around. The Italian brothers Joe and Marc were sitting at their usual table, soaking it in. Marya, a fellow Russian, tended the bar as always. As Alex arrived, he put his elbow on the stretch of oak; he leaned in. "Greetings, comrade," he said jokingly. "I seem to have forgotten the few rubles I still possess at Ulfengard's place; would you mind allowing a drink for a poor traveler?" Marya laughed; she walked over to the tap. "Anything for you, Alex. You know this." The tall man nodded, a smile lighting his face; he walked over to the table he usually resided at. A young woman, appearing to be in her twenties, occupied his favorite seat. Not minding, he sat next to the girl. "Why is someone as beautiful as you alone? I'm sure anyone would love to accompany you; people usually do, when it comes to the beautiful." The girl smiled; it quickly faded. Alex was an expert at reading body language; he could tell something troubled the woman. "What ails you, m'lady?" he said, half-joking. She smiled again, as she began to speak. "Alas, Ser, I seem to have lost my favorite dress. It is unbeknownst to me who hath taken it; would one so kind and brave as yourself retrieve it?" She laughed quietly; she was obviously mocking him. "Of course, fair maiden, but I cannot quest for one I do not know. What is thy name?" To this, the woman put down the newspaper she clutched and laughed harder. "Why, 'tis Claudia, good ser." Smiling, Alex put her arm around the girl's shoulders. "I do not believe you frequent this bar; correct me if I'm wrong. I am Ser Alexandre, thou Knight of Moscow." The girl seemed to lose any attraction; she got up. "Filthy Russian," she said. Alex received this reaction sometimes; some people were just disgusting like that. He purposely his his accent whenever he talked to newcomers as to keep himself off the radar; sometimes he trusted people too much and revealed himself. The door opened as the woman stepped out. Marya looked at Alex, a stern look on her face; she didn't keep it up long. A smile cracked the mask. Then, out of the blue, a shout rang out. "Russian! Russian inside the bar!" Cursing, Alex fingered the knife he kept on him at all times as a man burst in. This was bad.

It only took a couple words to get the man to put the gun down; Alex tried not to be too charming, but certain situations required it. "Now, I think we can all forgive and forget, no? Let's just pretend nothing happened here." The man nodded quickly; he was under what Alex fancied his 'spell.' He left the bar without picking up the Luger pistol on the ground. Alex held a disgust for firearms, despite being excellent with them; multiple battles from his single year in the Red Army ensured that. Marya strode to the man. "Alex, you know I like you, but I can't have this bar be a center of attention. I'm lucky enough they don't recognize me for what I am; you coughing up all your personal info to random women all the time does not keep you hidden. Something like this happens again, and I hate to say it, but I'll have to ask you to permanently leave." Alex nodded grimly. The damned Germans ruined everything.

After a good mile's walk, he ended up at 'Ulfengard's Inn,' his permanent resting place. Kharkliyov, the manager, had been smooth-talked into allowing Alex permanent residence free of charge. As he ascended the stairs, a chill went up Alex's back from an unknown source. Dismissing it as adrenaline from the night's turn of events, he opened the door to his room. An aroma wafted through the well-kept apartment of sorts; it was undoubtedly Sofya's scent. The kind-hearted young woman had taken an affinity to him, as most did, and decided she'd upkeep the room for him; once again, free of charge. Well, mostly. But that's a story for another time. Alex quickly shed the worn aviator's jacket about his shoulders and climbed into the bed, asleep faster than a bullet.


	2. The Meeting

Wasilij continued to watch as the sun rose lazily over the horizon, turning the once grey and dreary sky a simple shade of watery blue. Feeling as though he was completely drained, he stood, stuffed his necklace under his shirt, and stumbled out the door. Realizing he forgot his coat, he went back into his shabby apartment and groped around, finally finding his coat and managing to slip it on with minimal effort. Locking up his home, he walked down the street, shivering as he past City Hall.

Bustling on to the cafe, he groaned as a light, fluffy snow began to decend from the heavens. Walking through the doors, Wasilij stomped the fresh-fallen white off his boots and rubbed his arms, attempting to stop the numbing feeling that was slowly creeping its way down to his fingertips. "Damn winter," he mumbled, Jack Frost nipping at the tips of his nose and ears. He left his coat on as he took a seat, since the inside of the cafe wasn't much better than outside. "I'll have a coffee, please," he begged the waitress. "Black, and some toast."

He couldn't afford anything else.

As dawn cracked through the open window, Alex heard a groan, then a knock. Quickly getting out of the small bed, re-equipping his aviator's jacket, and walking to the door, he answered. It was none other than Sofya. "Hello, Alexandre," she said quickly.

Her eyelids were baggy, her eyes bloodshot. "Not much sleep last night?" Alex asked in a serious tone, wanting to go to the cafe he frequented and get a cup of coffee. "Alas, 'twas not to be," she said with a smile. Alex returned it. "I hope you're not here to collect; I was just leaving."

Sofya raised an eyebrow. "Care if I join you?" Alex slid his arm into hers, and the pair walked off.

The quaint little place that was the cafe was peaceful and calm as always; few were inside. Alex's pocket contained a couple dozen rubles; more than enough to pay for all of the people inside's breakfast. Noticing a man with a Star around his neck, he sighed. "Damned Nazis, branding people for execution by religion or race." Sofya folded her lips into a line; she felt the same way, though was too afraid to speak up.

Any one of these men could be a spy.

As the two sat down, the waitress came around. "What can I get for ya?" Alex replied, in his most charming voice, "I would like a cup of coffee, if you don't mind, love; half-and-half, as well as a couple pieces of toast. How much would that charge?" The waitress had a look of indecision borne rather plainly upon her face; she said in a whisper, "I won't charge you two.

"You seem like you work hard enough. Just don't tell anyone," she said. Alex smiled. "Much appreciated, love. My companion would, I believe, like the same thing," he said with a glance at the young woman in her early twenties.

"Yes, thank you," she said. She knew of the charm and charisma Alex possessed; heavy dislike for it accompanied the reminder. "So now you just charm the socks off anyone you want to, huh?" Alex shrugged. He did what he had to to get by; this insignificant woman's opinion meant nothing to him, despite the small affection he bore for her.

As the food arrived, he noticed the Jew looking rather depressed; he looked like he was searching his pocket for any money he had left. Deciding to lend the fellow a hand, he said in passing to Sofya, "Give me a second." Strolling over, he sat down in front of the man. "I can't help but notice that you appear rather hungry, yet have so little on your plate. Take this," he said, forking over two-dozen rubles.

"Most places here will accept the foreign currency. As that Star says, you're in need of dire help." In the last couple words, Alex let his natural accent sink in. "Enjoy."

Nearly jumping out of his skin, Wasilij had noticed that he had forgot to tuck his Star underneath his shirt. He panicked, and quickly hid the religious symbol. "No thank you," he managed to stutter out, scooting away slightly. Damn it, he was trembling again. He honestly thought he had some sort of condition; maybe he was just part leaf?

Scooting even further away, Wasilij spoke up again. "No, I don't want it; please, leave me alone." He was so scared. So, very, very scared. What if he told the Gestapo?

Or worse, what if he decided to "be the hero" and vandalize his apartment? Or, even worse, would he kill him? Wasilij felt his lip quiver visibly, as he thought of the horrible things people would do, just because he was Jewish.

He saw the fear written plain as day on the man's face. "Don't worry," he said, letting his Russian accent flow into his words, and using his most comforting tone. Leaning in, he said, "I am not one of those Nazi fuckers." A grim smile appeared. "Now take the money.

"You need it." He smiled more fully this time. "Trust me, they'd kill me just as quick as you. Apparently Russians aren't welcome in the hell that is Warsaw." His charm flowed into his words, attempting to calm the man.

He seemed like a good person, if a bit timid. Personally, Alexandre had nothing against Jews. He had nothing against anyone, except for the Nazi pig-fuckers.

* * *

Peter nodded to the waitress, offering a smile as she set down his cup of coffee and his plate of food. Several strangers, locals by the looks of it, had entered the cafe. Although nobody had noticed him yet, Peter began studying the new inhabitants of the cafe. One was a young boy, couldn't be much older than sixteen, if that. The other was much older man, who was busy in talking to the young boy while he left his female companion sitting by herself.

Sipping his coffee, Peter attempted to listen in on their hushed conversation, hoping his well-trained ears might pick up on a bit of juicy-gossip. He was unsuccessful, as the two are speaking in hushed tones, and returned to his coffee and his own business.

* * *

"Please, just leave me alone," Wasilij pleaded, close to tears. He scooted away as far as he could, and before he knew it, was on the floor with a bloody nose. He felt the floodgates break and began to cry, holding his face and attempting to stop the heavy blood flow. His face hurt, he felt trapped, and he had publicly humilated himself. Wasilij began to sob harder.

"Well, then, fuck you. Why would I try to help someone who shines and cries like a bitch after I fork over half of my money? Waste of time." Alex was pissed at this little sissy; he tries to help someone, what does he get? Trouble. A whining baby crying over the fact that someone else who would get exterminated for their race or religion tried to befriend them. Picking up his money, he resisted the urge to spit on the man. Walking back over to his table, he sat. "Goddamn pussy. I try to be decent and help a man in need, and he breaks his nose." A very, very angry look in his eye, he began sipping his coffee.

* * *

In a flash, the small 15 year old was on the ground with a bloody nose. Peter had just looked up from his meal, not sure on what happened. He was sure, however, that he was about to do his job. Immediately standing up, Peter threw off his trench coat and placed a hand on his holstered Luger. Briefly clearing his throat and unfastening the strap containing his pistol in his holster, Peter summoned the attention of the inhabitants of the room.

"_What the hell happened? Did you attack this boy? Both of you, come with me to questioning_!" Peter shouted at the two people involved, the young boy who was now crying with a bloody nose and the older, sly looking fellow standing over him. It wasn't until everybody in the Cafe was staring at him strangely did Peter remember that they didn't speak German here.

Keeping his back up against the wall of the cafe, Peter tightened the grip on his Luger. Although he knew that nobody in here would think about resisting him. Not because they were scared of a single Gestapo agent, rather, they were scared of the fact that as soon as a gunshot rang out then German soldiers would be storming in here quickly. "Both of you, come with me! I'm taking the boy to see some medical care and the man to questioning!

"If you comply, everything will be fine!" Peter shouted in Polish. The whole situation reminded of his first time making an arrest in Berlin. Rather than reminiscing, Peter kept up his steely-eyed gaze on all inhabitants of the cafe.

As the man approached Alex, he almost attcked him; instead, he decided to persuade him. "Sir, it appears this man had an accident. I do believe you should simply leave it at that; he seems to be dealing with it accordingly." Alex thought of revealing the man's religion.

It worked surprisingly well. Peter felt almost entranced by the Russian, and immediately left to go tend to Wasilij. He even apologized sincerely and helped pay for Aleksandre's meal.

Wasilij felt so frightened. While the Gestapo officer was distracted with the Russian, he attempted to sneak his way out of the cafe, holding back his sobs as best as he could. Maybe, just maybe, if he could just keep quiet... It failed. The Officer caught him, and he was surely screwed now. Without trying to get away, Wasilij covered his face with his hands and let himself sob pathetically.

This was a bad day.

Alex wanted to just stab all of them; however, his survival instincts told him no. He let his charisma set in, trying to get them off him. This is what he got for helping a fellow straggler. That damn Jew's apartment was going to be fucked up come morning. Maybe he'd just tell the man he was a Jew. Yeah, he'd do that. "Sir, this man is of the Jewish religion." He let the words sink in. He was going to get that fucker killed.


	3. Chaos

Things got way too serious, _way_ too fast. Peter thought it was going to be a simple assualt now ended up with a _Jew _in his hand. Not that Peter had any problem with the Jews, it's just that he had a job to do. And, his job included transporting the Jews to the ghetto. What happened in the ghetto, Peter didn't know nor did he particularly care to find out.

The fact that everyone was frightened, and the short Jew was sobbing, now he cared a lot about that. Withdrawing his pistol, Peter fired two shots into the ceiling. Although the sound of the gunshots were deafening inside of the cafe, especially since it was such an empty place, outside Peter hoped that a German patrol would have heard the shots and would come rushing inside of the cafe. He needed support, now.

"Everyone calm down now!" Peter shouted as he tightened his grip on the back of the Jewish kid's collar. Now that he thought about it, the boy didn't really look Jewish. Mussy, dirty blonde hair that fell in his face in waves; large, doe-like, chocolatey brown eyes. Creamy pale skin that was soft to the touch...

Peter flushed bright red and cleared his throat, tightening his grip on his Luger.

Alex looked at the situation unfolding. "Stop this!" He let intimidation come into his tone. "I will _not_ let my nice breakfast be ruined by a wimp Jew and a man with a gun! NOW PUT YOUR GODDAMN WEAPON AWAY!" As an added note, Alex added, "AND FUCK OFF! Except for you, Jew. I want to talk to you." Alex looked at the crying Sofya. Rushing to soothe her, he massaged her shoulder. "Calm down, hon. Just because a couple people are too stupid to solve their problems with words doesn't mean you have to be scared." He glared at the man who was currently standing there, dumbfounded.

Blinking rapidly, Peter lowered his pistol. Damn, this guy was persuasive. Absent mindedly, he gently rubbed circles in the Jew's neck, attempting to soothe him as well.

Sighing, Alex sat down. "Now can we please have a normal day, eat our breakfast and forget this little situation? I tried to give Jewboy some money, and he refused, ending up falling out of the damn booth and cracking his nose open. If anyone's fault, it's Jewboy's." Alex was damn pissed at the stupid boy; he had created all of this. "How old are you, kid? It's hard to be that stupid."

Wasilij winced as the Russian's words cut deep. He should tell the officer that Aleksandre was Russian, in revenge. But, he wouldn't do that. He was a nice person, unlike the other. "Fifteen," he managed to stutter out, still crying hopelessly.

He was going to the ghetto, and he was going to die. He wouldn't lie now. He wanted to go to heaven, so he would spill his guts. At least the Gestapo officer wasn't handling him cruely; in fact, the way his gloved thumb carressed his neck made him relax slightly.

"Sir, leave this scum with me. I'll make sure he receives his due," Alex said, with the intention of interrogating the kid. And, of course, punching him once or twice. "Trust me, the ghetto is nothing compared to what I'll do with him." His words seemed like audio silk; the man was sure to give the retarded Jew to him.

He gave the kid another glare; he had ruined his nice morning with Sofya. "Go back to the inn, honey. I'll come back, hopefully with Jewboy soon." Sofya nodded, fearful, and sprinted out. Reluctantly, Peter handed Wasilij over to Aleksandre; feeling cold without the boy next to him, for some reason, he cautiously took his trench coat and pulled it on to warm himself.

He felt empty as he watched the silver-tongued one grab the Jew by the arm and drag him out of the cafe.


	4. Wasilij

Heinz peered outside the window of his Kubelwagen. Refugees expulsed from what used to be Western Poland lined the road to Warsaw. Heinz shrugged, they were expulsed to the General government zone to make room for ethic Germans moving into the parts of Poland directly annexed by the Reich.

He drove on, driving past the ghettos were Polish Jews and other _untermensch_were being kept until transfer to various "camps" in the general government zone. Very few other cars were on the road, as fuel was very strictly rationed. However various pieces of derbis on the road more then made up for it.

The SS captain heard various yells coming from the right of him, gazing out his window once more he noticed an cafe, with many soldiers of the Heer occupying it. An Panzer III sat firmly infront of the cafe, causing the seasoned SS officer to double blink. His car slid to a halt, kicking up snow in every direction. He opened the door, stepping outside into the bitter cold, dressed warmly in a insulated leather trench.

Most of the soldiers seemed tired or stoggy, but soon snapped to attention when they noticed the silver totenkopf attached to his officer's cap. He strolled over to the livest looking soldier and spoke in his lightly accented voice.

"Soldat, what has happened here? Report_._"

"Gestapo, not Soldat_,_" Peter replied bluntly to the SS officer who had just arrived on the scene before saluting. Peter himself was retrieving his tab from where he had left it on the table, holstering his Luger pistol at the same time. "I was sitting here eating breakfast when an assualt occurred between two patrons of this establishment. Naturally, I tried to re-store order. I presume the owner of the cafe_..._"

Peter explained, pointing to a fat and sweaty red-faced man, "did not know who these people were. The two assualt suspects fled shortly before the soldiers arrived. I am, however, bringing these people to questioning at City Hall."

Peter felt the chills go down his spine as he talked to the SS officer. He had never particularly enjoyed the company of an SS officer, they always had something...wrong with them. He didn't know how quite to put it, but, it was like someone had the bright idea of opening every mental institution in the world, taking the most sick and depraved people out of them and placing them in positions of power.

Pulling his trench-coat back on, Peter watched as soldiers from the Heer lined up those who were wanted for questioning up against the wall; their rifles pointed directly at their backs and their fingers resting lazily on the triggers.

"If you so wish, you may join me in questioning these suspects, or, I can give you the descriptions of the two suspects who fled. I believe one of them was a Jew, if that was any interest to you_._" Peter said to the SS officer, attempting to be polite before he got on with the rest of his day. He would have to file these people in the Gestapo log book, question them and all sorts of boring things he would have rather not had to do today.

Heinz always liked to search the areas himself, even if his fellow SS men already did. He trusted his own senses above anyone else's. Besides, these men seemed tired and stoggy as he noticed before. He gazed back at the lower ranking Gestapo agent. "Sicherheitsdienst," Heinz said, sending part of his arm out of his trench coat briefly to expose the SD emblem stitched onto his left sleeve.

"Detain the _untermensch _for questioning, I shall begin my own search_._"

The SD Captain stepped away from the Gestapo agent and began his search of the cafe, much to the ire of the collected Heer and Gestapo men. Herr Heinz searched the cellar, and found obvious signs of Resistance activity; such as weapons and plans. He did not find any escape hatches, which lead him to believe that the basement had been empty during the time of the assault.

Heinz, shook his head at the Gestapo's incomptence. He motioned Peter and a couple of his men into the cellar. "How did an entire company of you dumkopfs managed to miss this? I have never seen such condensed stupidity_..._" He sighed, rubbing his temples for a moment before speaking.

"_Kriminalinspektor_, let us go and question the suspects. The rest of you, go and play with sticks. Be grateful I don't put in a word to high command and cut off your tobacco and alochol rations." He waved the soldiers off. They left to the upper part of the cafe, grumbling. Heinz followed them upstairs, strolling towards the Poles lined up agasint the wall.

The SD Captain stood infront of the suspects. "Listen, you have families, loved ones _ja_?" He motioned for the soldiers to turn them around. An _Unterfeldwebel _barked in Polish for the suspects to turn around, most of them complying rather then feel the wraith of the Gestapo.

"I realize most of you are fighting for freedom. For liberation. You also must realize the good guys, as you must think of yourselves do not always win in reality. Your friends will be found out one way or another so you may aswell save your own hide. Oh, and if you lie, I'll know.

"I've been in this business for seven years so I know a liar when I see one. Understood? _Gut_, let's begin."

He began calmly questioning the suspects one by one.

Peter bit his lip as Heinz began questioning suspects. He felt as though he was betraying someone as terrifyed citizens forked over infromation and descriptions, and winced as several patrons gave the perfect description of the Polish Jew. Curly sandy blonde hair ending just under his chin, brown eyes, standing at about five-foot-six, pale... He looked down at his hand, thinking that he could still feel the Jew's skin through the fabric of his glove.

"Gestapo." Peter jumped as he was shocked away from his daydream, and flushed in embarassment at the look Herr Heinz threw at him. "Gestapo, you and the Wehrmacht are dismissed. I found nothing about this resistance movement, and so the Poles will be free to go," the SD Captain barked, before turning sharply on his heel and returning to his Kubelwagen.

Peter stepped back within the confines of City Hall. Rubbing the back of his neck exhaustively, Peter dragged himself to his desk. Taking off his trench-coat, he set his Luger on his hardwood desk as he listened to the monotonous click-clack of the typewriters of fellow Gestapo agents filing their reports. Waving forward one of the secretaries and asking her to get him a cup of coffee, Peter turned himself towards his own typewriter and began filing out a report of today's strange and chaotic events.

As he typed, however, Peter's mind began to wander. Who was that little Jew boy in the cafe? Although he probably shouldn't, Peter couldn't help but think about him. What inspired him to so...brazenly walk out into public, even though he probably knew he would be sent to the Ghetto if he was caught? Who was that silver-tonged devil that he ended up giving the Jew to? Perhaps, one day, Peter would meet up with the Jew-boy again. Peter smirked to himself as he realized that he cared more about that single Jew than capturing a cafe's worth of weapons from the resistance; he must be the odd man out. Nodding to the secretary as she brought him his cup of coffee, Peter took a small sip and began to type away.

He had much to write about, after all.


	5. Odd Man Out

Heinz peered outside the window of his Kubelwagen. Refugees expulsed from what used to be Western Poland lined the road to Warsaw. Heinz shrugged, they were expulsed to the General government zone to make room for ethic Germans moving into the parts of Poland directly annexed by the Reich.

He drove on, driving past the ghettos were Polish Jews and other _untermensch_were being kept until transfer to various "camps" in the general government zone. Very few other cars were on the road, as fuel was very strictly rationed. However various pieces of derbis on the road more then made up for it.

The SS captain heard various yells coming from the right of him, gazing out his window once more he noticed an cafe, with many soldiers of the Heer occupying it. An Panzer III sat firmly infront of the cafe, causing the seasoned SS officer to double blink. His car slid to a halt, kicking up snow in every direction. He opened the door, stepping outside into the bitter cold, dressed warmly in a insulated leather trench.

Most of the soldiers seemed tired or stoggy, but soon snapped to attention when they noticed the silver totenkopf attached to his officer's cap. He strolled over to the livest looking soldier and spoke in his lightly accented voice.

"Soldat, what has happened here? Report_._"

"Gestapo, not Soldat_,_" Peter replied bluntly to the SS officer who had just arrived on the scene before saluting. Peter himself was retrieving his tab from where he had left it on the table, holstering his Luger pistol at the same time. "I was sitting here eating breakfast when an assualt occurred between two patrons of this establishment. Naturally, I tried to re-store order. I presume the owner of the cafe_..._"

Peter explained, pointing to a fat and sweaty red-faced man, "did not know who these people were. The two assualt suspects fled shortly before the soldiers arrived. I am, however, bringing these people to questioning at City Hall."

Peter felt the chills go down his spine as he talked to the SS officer. He had never particularly enjoyed the company of an SS officer, they always had something...wrong with them. He didn't know how quite to put it, but, it was like someone had the bright idea of opening every mental institution in the world, taking the most sick and depraved people out of them and placing them in positions of power.

Pulling his trench-coat back on, Peter watched as soldiers from the Heer lined up those who were wanted for questioning up against the wall; their rifles pointed directly at their backs and their fingers resting lazily on the triggers.

"If you so wish, you may join me in questioning these suspects, or, I can give you the descriptions of the two suspects who fled. I believe one of them was a Jew, if that was any interest to you_._" Peter said to the SS officer, attempting to be polite before he got on with the rest of his day. He would have to file these people in the Gestapo log book, question them and all sorts of boring things he would have rather not had to do today.

Heinz always liked to search the areas himself, even if his fellow SS men already did. He trusted his own senses above anyone else's. Besides, these men seemed tired and stoggy as he noticed before. He gazed back at the lower ranking Gestapo agent. "Sicherheitsdienst," Heinz said, sending part of his arm out of his trench coat briefly to expose the SD emblem stitched onto his left sleeve.

"Detain the _untermensch _for questioning, I shall begin my own search_._"

The SD Captain stepped away from the Gestapo agent and began his search of the cafe, much to the ire of the collected Heer and Gestapo men. Herr Heinz searched the cellar, and found obvious signs of Resistance activity; such as weapons and plans. He did not find any escape hatches, which lead him to believe that the basement had been empty during the time of the assault.

Heinz, shook his head at the Gestapo's incomptence. He motioned Peter and a couple of his men into the cellar. "How did an entire company of you dumkopfs managed to miss this? I have never seen such condensed stupidity_..._" He sighed, rubbing his temples for a moment before speaking.

"_Kriminalinspektor_, let us go and question the suspects. The rest of you, go and play with sticks. Be grateful I don't put in a word to high command and cut off your tobacco and alochol rations." He waved the soldiers off. They left to the upper part of the cafe, grumbling. Heinz followed them upstairs, strolling towards the Poles lined up agasint the wall.

The SD Captain stood infront of the suspects. "Listen, you have families, loved ones _ja_?" He motioned for the soldiers to turn them around. An _Unterfeldwebel _barked in Polish for the suspects to turn around, most of them complying rather then feel the wraith of the Gestapo.

"I realize most of you are fighting for freedom. For liberation. You also must realize the good guys, as you must think of yourselves do not always win in reality. Your friends will be found out one way or another so you may aswell save your own hide. Oh, and if you lie, I'll know.

"I've been in this business for seven years so I know a liar when I see one. Understood? _Gut_, let's begin."

He began calmly questioning the suspects one by one.

Peter bit his lip as Heinz began questioning suspects. He felt as though he was betraying someone as terrifyed citizens forked over infromation and descriptions, and winced as several patrons gave the perfect description of the Polish Jew. Curly sandy blonde hair ending just under his chin, brown eyes, standing at about five-foot-six, pale... He looked down at his hand, thinking that he could still feel the Jew's skin through the fabric of his glove.

"Gestapo." Peter jumped as he was shocked away from his daydream, and flushed in embarassment at the look Herr Heinz threw at him. "Gestapo, you and the Wehrmacht are dismissed. I found nothing about this resistance movement, and so the Poles will be free to go," the SD Captain barked, before turning sharply on his heel and returning to his Kubelwagen.

Peter stepped back within the confines of City Hall. Rubbing the back of his neck exhaustively, Peter dragged himself to his desk. Taking off his trench-coat, he set his Luger on his hardwood desk as he listened to the monotonous click-clack of the typewriters of fellow Gestapo agents filing their reports. Waving forward one of the secretaries and asking her to get him a cup of coffee, Peter turned himself towards his own typewriter and began filing out a report of today's strange and chaotic events.

As he typed, however, Peter's mind began to wander. Who was that little Jew boy in the cafe? Although he probably shouldn't, Peter couldn't help but think about him. What inspired him to so...brazenly walk out into public, even though he probably knew he would be sent to the Ghetto if he was caught? Who was that silver-tonged devil that he ended up giving the Jew to? Perhaps, one day, Peter would meet up with the Jew-boy again. Peter smirked to himself as he realized that he cared more about that single Jew than capturing a cafe's worth of weapons from the resistance; he must be the odd man out. Nodding to the secretary as she brought him his cup of coffee, Peter took a small sip and began to type away.

He had much to write about, after all.


End file.
